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2 days ago
- Science
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From Genghis Khan's Tomb To The Hanging Gardens Of Babylon — 9 Important Archaeological Sites That Still Haven't Been Discovered
Through the centuries, historical sites are bound to disappear. Whether due to climate change, political turmoil, or even grave robbers, there are many reasons why discoveries at notable locations are sparse, but there are still typically traces of the people and customs. Occasionally, though, it's as if they never existed to begin with... One might believe that, in regard to important historical figures and locations, there would be some form of record, whether written or oral, that would allude to a location. However, that's not always the the Hanging Gardens of Babylon to Cleopatra's tomb, here are 9 important archaeological sites that may never be found: Hanging Gardens of Babylon: Considered one of the "Seven Wonders of the Ancient World," the Hanging Gardens of Babylon are the only Wonder that has remained elusive to archaeologists. Most historians believe that in the sixth century BCE, King Nebuchadnezzar II had the Gardens constructed as a gift for his wife, Amytis, who was homesick for her native Media (modern-day Iran). In that day and age, it would have taken a feat of engineering to ensure the gardens were properly irrigated, leading scientists to theorize that a system akin to Roman aqueducts would have delivered water from the nearby Euphrates River to the Gardens. While there are many descriptions of the Gardens in Greek and Roman texts, these were second-hand accounts that had been passed down throughout the centuries, as there is no mention of them in any preserved Babylonian texts. Due to the lack of archaeological evidence, some scientists assume the Gardens never truly existed. However, Oxford's Dr. Stephanie Dalley, an Assyriologist, discredited those assumptions: "That's a pretty stupid copout, really. It doesn't make sense to say we couldn't find it, so it didn't exist." Dalley claims the lack of archaeological evidence is due, rather, to the fact that the Gardens weren't located in Babylon at all, but rather in Nineveh, the capital city of Assyria (modern-day Iraq and Turkey). She believes Assyrian king Sennacherib, not Nebuchadnezzar II, built the Gardens in the seventh century BCE, an entire century earlier than hypothesized in Babylon. After combing through ancient texts, she noted that Sennacherib described an "unrivaled palace" in his kingdom and a "wonder for all peoples," as well as a bronze water-raising screw, which could have been used to irrigate the Gardens. Dalley explained that confusion over their location might have stemmed from the fact that after Assyria conquered Babylon in 689 BCE, Nineveh was renamed "New Babylon." Excavations near Nineveh (near modern-day Mosul) uncovered a complex aqueduct-esque system with the inscription: "Sennacherib, king of the world…Over a great distance, I had a watercourse directed to the environs of Nineveh." It's still unknown who or what destroyed the Gardens. Strabo's writings described "Gardens" that were in ruins by the end of the first century BCE and claimed that Alexander the Great wanted to repair them. However, the Macedonian king died before he could complete his mission, and "none of the persons who succeeded [Alexander] attended to this undertaking." Khan's tomb: Before Genghis Khan died in August 1227 CE, he requested that his grave not be marked in any way. However, this hasn't stopped a variety of individuals, from archaeologists to grave robbers, from attempting to find the ruler's final resting place, despite the fact that Marco Polo recounted that even by the late 13th century, the mystery eluded even the Mongols themselves. Most fieldwork that has taken place to find Khan's tomb has centered around Burkhan Khaldun in northeastern Mongolia, near his birthplace. The location was even mentioned in The Secret History of the Mongols, the oldest surviving work about Khan's final days. According to the text, he declared it to be the most sacred mountain in Mongolia and said, "Bury me here when I pass away." (Historians still don't know what officially caused his demise, but one popular theory is that it was due to injuries sustained from falling off a horse in 1226). Despite this statement, archaeological searches in the area have been fruitless. The details of Khan's burial have long been shrouded in mystery. In an oft-recounted tale, Marco Polo claimed that after 2,000 slaves finished burying Khan, they were killed by soldiers, who were in turn killed by another group of soldiers, who later killed themselves in an effort to finally secure the privacy of their revered ruler's burial site. However, this legend is not mentioned in contemporary stories. There have also been long-standing rumors of a curse surrounding Khan's grave. In 2002 this theory recirculated after an American expedition, led by University of Chicago historian, John Woods, and former gold trader, Maury Kravitz, abruptly ended after a series of "mishaps," including workers being bitten by pit vipers (it is rumored that a two mile long wall of snakes protects the warlord's final resting place) and vehicles inexplicably rolling down hillsides. If this didn't deter the mission, the final blow was when Mongolia's prime minister accused the team of desecrating a sacred site, stating: "I regret that our ancestors' golden tomb has been disturbed and the purity of our burial places tainted for a few dollars. This place should remain pure for the souls after death." Despite the team's theory that Khan's tomb was indeed close to their search area, Kravitz told reporters, "In each of the countries and cities and sovereign states he conquered, Genghis Khan brought back the wealth of that culture on two-wheeled wagons. Not one thing has been found. Not a single bejewelled dagger. Not a single necklace. It all went into Mongolia and never exited. (Some believe Khan's tomb contains vast quantities of treasure)." After that trek ceased in 2002, Khan's palace was discovered by a Japanese-Mongolian expedition in October 2004, 150 miles east of Ulan Bator, which led to academic excitement that his burial site might be situated nearby. Despite this promising theory, nothing was found. There have been other expeditions since that time, but no major breakthroughs have occurred. Lost Colony of Roanoke: One of the biggest mysteries of pre-colonial America is the fate of the Lost Colony of Roanoke. While we do know that the colony was located on present-day Roanoke Island off the coast of North Carolina, archaeologists are still unable to pinpoint the settlement's exact location and where/if the colonists resettled elsewhere. In the words of Adrian Masters, a University of Texas historian, "It's the 'Area 51' of colonial history." The story of the Lost Colony began in 1584 when Sir Walter Raleigh sought permission from Queen Elizabeth I to establish a permanent North American settlement. She approved his request and granted permission for the establishment of "Virginia." Shortly after, over 100 British men, women, and children boarded the ship Lyon, and ten weeks later, landed on the coast of North Carolina. Roanoke Island was only meant to be a stopping point in the settlers' journey, as records show they intended to move 50 miles into the mainland, eventually making their home in Salmon Creek. But winter derailed their plans, forcing them to settle in Roanoke for longer than intended. The changing seasons, as well as a tenuous relationship with the local Algonquian tribe, the colony's governor John White to return to England to gather supplies. On August 25, 1587, the settlers asked, "...we all of one mind, and consent, have most earnestly entreated, and incessantly requested John White, Governor of the planters in Virginia, to pass into England, for the better and more assured help..." White was reluctant, but realized supplies would be beneficial, so on August 27, he set off for his home country. His return trip was particularly ill-timed as it took place in the midst of the war between Spain and England. The threat of the fearsome Spanish Armada caused Elizabeth I to prohibit British ships from leaving the port, lest they be needed to face off against the Spaniards. In April 1588, despite the prohibition, White was able to arrange a relief mission. However, a battle with the French forced the ships to return to England. White was unable to arrange another voyage until 1590, this time with four ships owned by privateers, who agreed to drop him off at the colony. On August 18, 1590, he landed in Roanoke and discovered the settlers had vanished without a trace, leaving behind only the word "Croatan" carved into a wooden post. Croatan was the name of a nearby island that was home to a Native American tribe of the same name. Hypotheses about the fate of the settlers have ranged from kidnapping or possible assimilation into a tribe to a pandemic. But, nearly five centuries later, these theories are still unproven. In recent decades, archaeological excavations have turned up few clues as to what took place in White's absence. Many researchers and archaeologists now believe that surviving settlers broke off into smaller groups and migrated to different areas. In 2020, the First Colony Foundation stated that "compelling evidence" had been found that a "satellite site" had been established along Salmon Creek for a period of time, as both excavations and ground-penetrating radar revealed ceramic artifacts that were later identified as being from the Elizabethan period. The Foundation has also planned an excavation near Fort Raleigh National Historic Site in Manteo, North Carolina, in the hopes of finding the original settlement. (Nefertiti's daughter and King Tut's wife) tomb: Despite her half-brother/husband, King Tut's final resting place being discovered in 1922, over a century later, the tomb of Ankhesenamun has yet to be uncovered. Ankhesenamun, Nefertiti's daughter, was married to the "Boy King" when she was 13 years old. The couple had two daughters before Tut died around the age of 18 for causes that are still unknown. Ankhesenamun was featured prominently in the artwork within his tomb, including one scene that shows her assuming the role of priest during his coronation and again on the back of his golden throne. After Tut's death, not much is known about her life, except for the fact that she initially refused to marry Ay, Tut's successor (and perhaps her grandfather). Instead, asking Suppiluliuma I, a Hittite king, to send one of his sons to marry her and therefore become pharaoh. This request confused the king, but he proceeded to send his son Zannanza, who was killed on the Egyptian border by General Horemheb (who later became pharaoh himself). A ring bearing the name of both Ankhesenamun and Ay seems to suggest that she eventually married him, but evidence supporting this theory has been inconclusive. Some also theorize that she may have been executed after communicating with the Hittites. Despite her esteemed rank, Ankhesenamun's request to the Hittite king was the final time she was mentioned in the historical record, and her burial site has been lost to the sands of time. In 2016, archaeologists who scanned Tut's tomb believed they had found undiscovered chambers, which could possibly have led to Nefertiti or even Ankhesenamun's tombs. However, a later scan by National Geographic disproved this theory. In 2017, Owen Jarus of LiveScience reported that archaeologists believed they had found Ankhesenamun's final resting place in the Valley of the Monkeys, which was adjacent to the Valley of the Kings. However, the dig's leader, Zahi Hawass, released a statement, claiming that they were not certain if a tomb existed at all and if it did, whether or not it belonged to Ankhesenamun. As of 2025, nothing relating to Ankhesenamun's final resting place has been discovered. Ark of the Convenant: Despite what one might believe after watching Raiders of the Lost Ark, the Ark of the Covenant has yet to be discovered. Throughout the centuries, individuals have searched for the Biblical artifact to no avail. According to the Book of Exodus, during Moses' 40-day stay on Mount Sinai, God commanded him to have the Ark of the Covenant built and showed him a blueprint for a tabernacle for the Ark as well as furnishings it should contain. Constructed by Bezalel and Oholiab, the Ark itself was described as being made of acacia wood and overlaid with pure gold, with a crown of gold around it, and fitted with staves (vertical planks) overlaid with gold, so that it could be safely carried (in the books of Samuel and Chronicles, it is written that after a cart carrying the Ark tilted, a man named Uzzah reached out to steady it with his hand, which violated divine law, and was thereby killed by God for his error), and decorated with cherubims. The Ark was also designed to contain the original stone tablets on which the Ten Commandments were written. The Ark was later lost to the Philistines (a group who had settled in Canaan) for seven months. However, after mishaps began plaguing the Philistines, they returned the Ark to the Israelites. Despite the significance of this artifact, it was last seen in Jerusalem within the Temple circa 586 BCE when the Babylonian Empire conquered the Israelites. To this day, historians are unsure if it was stolen, destroyed, or hidden. Many believe the Ark made its way to Ethiopia. According to Ethiopian tradition, it was preserved in the Church of Mary of Zion in Aksum, an ancient holy city. Some even claim that Emperor Iyasu viewed and spoke to the artifact in 1691. Now, it supposedly resides in the Chapel of the Tablet, where it was moved during Haile Selassie's reign, and is guarded by a singular monk, who recites the Book of Psalms and burns incense before it. However, the church's authorities have never allowed the artifact to be studied for authenticity. Another theory is that the Ark was hidden within a network of passages built underneath the First Temple in Jerusalem before the Babylonians destroyed it. However, this hypothesis cannot be tested because the site of the First Temple is now the Dome of the Rock shrine, which is sacred in Islam. Therefore, it cannot be excavated. There are many, many theories about the Ark's current whereabouts. However, it seems unlikely we'll ever know what truly occurred, as archaeologist Fred Hiebert explained to National Geographic, "Even if such an object were discovered, how would one test its Biblical authenticity against that of other ancient artifacts? We are talking about things [at] the crossroads between myth and reality. I think it's great to have stories like [that of] the Ark of the Covenant. But I do not believe, as a field archaeologist, that we can use the scientific method to prove or disprove [them]." of the Second Temple: While we're on the topic of missing Biblical artifacts, it goes without saying that one of the biggest archaeological mysteries is the whereabouts of the treasures of the Second Temple. After the Babylonians plundered the First Temple during their conquest of Jerusalem in 597 BCE, it was noted in the Book of Ezra that most of the stolen items were restored to the Israelites. However, over six centuries later, when the Roman emperor Titus laid siege to Jerusalem in 70 CE, the recovered treasures and many others sacred items (including the Golden Menorah, the Table of Showbread, and the golden altar of incense) that had been gathered over the centuries, vanished from the Second Temple. When the Arch of Titus was constructed a few years later, the commemorative monument showed the Romans carrying their plundered treasures through the streets of their homeland. It was noted that some of these items were stored in the Roman Temple of Peace, where the Golden Menorah was displayed for centuries. A little over three centuries later, the Romans were subjected to three days of looting and pillaging by the Visigoths, after which historian Procopius wrote that the invader's spoils contained, "the treasures of Solomon's Temple, a sight most worthy to be seen, articles adorned with emeralds, taken from Jerusalem by the Romans." The Visigoths resettled in the southern region of France, where some believe the pillaged treasures may still lie. However, another theory states that the Visigoths were not so lucky as to keep their treasures. Many claim the items wound up in the possession of Byzantine Emperor Justinian, who believed them to be cursed and ordered their redistribution to churches in Jerusalem. After the items were returned to their native land, some believe they were once again seized by either Persian or Muslim invaders and melted down. Others theorize they found their final home inside the mysterious Vatican vaults. However, in 2004, the Israel Antiquities Authority was granted permission to explore the vaults and found no sign of the items. Akkadian capital of Agade: In 2334 BCE, Sargon the Great united all of Mesopotamia and developed the world's first multi-national political dynasty, the Akkadian Empire, which would serve as an example to all future Mesopotamian civilizations. At the height of its power, the Empire encompassed a large section of modern-day Iraq and Syria. Its people were known for pioneering innovations such as the world's first postal system and cuneiform writing. Akkadia was also recognized for Sargon's institution of Ishtar, the Semitic goddess of war, who served as the entire dynasty's deity, rather than just a single city. This is what brings us to the lost city of Agade. Agade (also referred to as Akkade), Akkadia's capital, served as the Eulmash temple, which was devoted to Ishtar. However, when the Akkadian Empire fell around 2154 BCE, Agade had become largely abandoned. Later Mesopotamian rulers still revered the history of the empire, as Benjamin Foster, an Assyriologist, explained, "Their relics were admired, their inscriptions were studied, and their historical memory was kept alive for two thousand years." Despite Agade's abandonment, the location of its ruins was still known in the 6th century BCE, as Babylonian king Nabonidus claimed to have excavated the site, writing, "I relaid the foundation, the altar, and dais, along with two ziggurats, and made firm its brickwork. I built them up to ground level so that the foundation of Eulmash shall never again be forgotten." Sadly, as is the case with many ancient sites, the location of the Eulmash temple and Agade itself had been mostly forgotten until the mid-1800s. During the archaeology boom of the 19th and 20th centuries, Assyriologists once again took interest in ancient Mesopotamian culture and recognized Agade as a city of great cultural importance. Historians today seem to agree that Agade was situated along the banks of the Tigris River, most likely between the modern cities of Baghdad and Samarra. However, due to the Tigris River changing course throughout the millennia, there is concern that Agade might have simply been washed away. As Nele Ziegler, an Assyriologist for the French National Center for Scientific Research, explained, "We don't have many clues to where it is. There's no text that tells you, for instance, how much time it took to go from Sippar to Agade." She continued, "We'd really like to find it. There was a cultural revolution going on when the Akkadians came to power. It would be really interesting to see what they imagined as their ideal capital city." As of now, the city still remains lost. Heirloom Seal of the Realm: In 221 BCE, the Heirloom Seal of the Realm (aka the Imperial Seal of China) was allegedly carved out of a sacred piece of jade, known as the Heshibi, under the orders of Qin Shi Huang, the first emperor of China, after he united the nation and destroyed the remaining Warring States. When China's second emperor, known as Ying Huhai, died, the seal was gifted to the Han dynasty's new emperor, thereby becoming known as the "Han Heirloom Seal of the Realm." Years later, the sole emperor of the Xin dynasty forced the Han empress dowager to hand over the Seal. The Seal survived this and many more centuries of political turmoil; in all, it was passed through six dynasties before becoming "lost" during the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms period, which lasted from 907 to 960 CE. While it is not known what specifically happened to the Seal, there are three prominent theories that allude to its disappearance, with one of the most prominent being that Yuan emperors acquired it. However, that theory is slightly discredited after one learns that when Ming armies captured the Yuan capital in 1369, they gained ownership of only one out of the emperor's eleven seals. When Ming armies invaded again the following year, the Seal was still missing. Once the Ming dynasty began, the Seal was officially considered lost, and over six and a half centuries later, it still is. Several ancient seals have been discovered in the Chinese countryside in recent decades, which have drawn many excited hypotheses that they could have been the long-lost Heirloom Seal. However, these theories have been disproven. tomb: On August 10 (or possibly 12), 30 BCE, after Egyptian forces were crushed by the Roman army in the Battle of Actium, Cleopatra killed herself. Despite it being over two millennia since the queen was found lying, lifeless, on her golden couch, we still do not know where her final resting place is. According to ancient historians, Octavian, the Roman ruler, allowed Cleopatra and her husband, Mark Antony, who had killed himself nine days prior, to be buried together. In his writings, Plutarch stated that Cleopatra's tomb was located near a Temple of Isis (the Egyptian goddess of healing and magic), as both he and fellow historian Cassius Dio noted that in her final days, she had frequently traveled from her palace to the tomb. Dio further supported the claim that she and Antony "were both embalmed in the same fashion and buried in the same tomb." In 2004, Kathleen Martínez, a lawyer-turned-archaeologist, began searching for the tomb. After studying Ancient Roman texts, Martínez investigated 21 temple sites she believed could house Cleopatra's remains, leading her to primarily focus on Taposiris Magna, a ruined temple which lies 25 miles west of Alexandria. She told National Geographic, "What brought me to the conclusion that Taposiris Magna was a possible place for Cleopatra's hidden tomb was the idea that her death was a ritual act of deep religious significance carried out in a very strict, spiritualized ceremony. Cleopatra…wanted to be buried with [Antony] because she wanted to reenact the legend of Isis and Osiris. The true meaning of the cult of Osiris is that it grants immortality. After their deaths, the gods would allow Cleopatra to live with Antony in another form of existence, so they would have eternal life together." In December 2024, her team discovered a small marble bust that the Egyptian Ministry of Tourism and Antiquities claimed Martinez told them might bear the resemblance of Cleopatra, however, in the press release, the Ministry noted that other archaeologists disagreed with her theory, claiming the "facial features differ from known depictions of Cleopatra VII. It is more likely the statue represents another royal woman or princess." Despite some impressive findings, Martinez and her team have yet to locate Cleopatra's final resting place. Zahi Hawass, an early supporter of Martinez's work and the former secretary-general of the Supreme Council of Antiquities, told Live Science, "There is no evidence at all that Cleopatra's tomb could be in [Taposiris Magna]. I believe now that Cleopatra was buried in her tomb that she built next to her palace and it is under the water. Her tomb will never be found." Did any of these "lost" historical sites surprise you? Can you think of any other important historical locations that haven't been discovered? Let us know in the comments!
Yahoo
20-04-2025
- General
- Yahoo
Contributor: Excavating the burn layer in Altadena
Every archaeologist remembers the first time they came to a layer of blackened dirt while excavating. For me it was at Tel Halif, in southern Israel. I was crouching in a hole; the dig's director spotted the dark soil from up above. That black dirt was a burn layer, created when fire tore through a settlement. It was the material residue of great trauma — whole lives consumed and carbonized. A burn layer puts a mark on a timeline. There is a before, and there is an after, and there is no mistaking the one for the other. Our home in Altadena has had its own burn layer since Jan. 7. Our family is one of the thousands who lost their homes in the Los Angeles-area wildfires. I have stood in the ashes of that home, watching my wife, Carly, sifting through the fragments to see what survived a fire so hot it melted wrought iron and thick antique glass. Unlike most of those who are searching through the debris of January's fires, this isn't the first time we've excavated the rubble of destroyed lives. Both Carly and I are historians who practice archaeology. Humans tend to build and rebuild in the same places. In archaeology, the hills made up of the ruins of successive eras — often many yards deep and spanning centuries or even millennia — are called 'tells.' Sometimes distinguishing a tell's layers is a subtle art, but a burn layer stands out from everything around it. In that burn layer at Tel Halif, we found Assyrian arrowheads and ballista stones: evidence of the assault that destroyed the village in 701 BCE, part of the military campaign that the emperor Sennacherib immortalized in stone relief wall panels now displayed in the British Museum. I stood on the hill and looked out toward the edge of the Negev desert, imagining the villagers watching an army come into view. Did they run? What did they think would happen after? Like those long-gone inhabitants of Tel Halif, we saw the destruction coming — fire on the hillsides of Eaton Canyon was visible from our bedroom window. It wasn't unfamiliar: I had watched the hillside above me burn in La Crescenta during the Station fire of 2009, and in 2020 the Bobcat fire brought noxious smoke and ash to Altadena. On Jan. 7, the power had been out most of the day, and the poor cell reception without it meant we hadn't seen the news out of Pacific Palisades. Santa Ana winds are a familiar part of Los Angeles life, and the flames that night didn't seem any more dangerous than the ones we'd encountered before. We packed overnight bags, drove down the hill with our kids and expected to come home in the morning. We did come back the next morning, weaving through downed trees and power lines, avoiding emergency vehicles. (It was some time before the National Guard came to close off the area.) But what we saw at our address made no sense. This was not like a house fire in movies or on TV. There was no blackened shell dripping water after the valiant efforts of firefighters to save it. Instead, there was nothing. The house was simply gone, save the precarious, towering chimney and the massive concrete pillars that had supported the front porch. The sheer gone-ness of it was disorienting. When we returned to the site later, random surviving objects oriented us: the small cast-iron bedside table, fallen from the second floor to a spot near the fireplace directly beneath it. Our toddler's diaper pail in the hollow of a crawl space mixed with the remnants of the dining room. Our archaeological training taught us to look for these small clues, and to reconstruct from them the outlines of the house's upper stories. At Tel Azekah, another Israeli site, Carly once excavated the skeleton of a young woman who had been crushed beneath pottery that had fallen from the upper floors. We know we are among the lucky ones; at least 18 people from Altadena died in the Eaton fire. The house we lost was built in 1913 for a spinster heiress named Helen T. Longstreth. Its architectural plans, in ink on linen, wound up in the Huntington Library. The drawings of the exterior's timbering and the interior's multilayered moldings and built-in cabinetry attest to both the muscularity and the intricacy of Craftsman architecture at the end of the style's peak in the Los Angeles area. The beams that supported the large front porch were drawn at an impressive 6x12 inches, milled in a period when 6x12 meant 6x12. To the Eaton fire, it was all just fuel. And it was all gone. Or mostly gone. Near the front of the house had been Carly's office, with a library of 3,500 volumes. Like everything else in the house, it was a total loss, but it hadn't yet vanished. Because it was in a part of the house with a concrete subfloor and no second story, some of the books on bottom shelves still sat in neat, ashen rows, the stitching on the spines still visible. I was able to pick one up, almost as if it were still a book. But in the hand, it immediately began to disintegrate and blow away in the light breeze. I was reminded of the charred scrolls from Herculaneum, on which the Getty Villa was modeled, and the ashy human figures from Pompeii, frozen in the poses in which they died as waves of volcanic ash and lava overtook them. Here was the image of a book and bookshelf, but with no surviving words, no life in it. For me, the fire has driven home what my life's work as a historian of antiquity has taught me, what Shelley crystallized in his poem 'Ozymandias': We humans build monuments, only to have them disappear into the sands of time. But maybe the Bible says it most succinctly: 'You are dust, and to dust you shall return.' (Genesis 3:19) In an odd way, I count myself lucky to be disabused so forcefully of any fantasies of material permanence while I'm still in the middle of my life. How many elderly people look around their homes and wonder what to do with all this stuff? I walked away from the ash. Carly, however, returned several times, donned PPE, and sifted. From the ashes she pulled a strange assortment of survivors: fragments of ceramic plates, misshapen metal and coffee mugs that no public health authority would recommend using. (Archaeologists do frequently lick the ceramics from an excavation, the better to show the decoration, but those don't have toxic metals in the dusting of soil.) She also excavated a few gems, including a star sapphire ring that belonged to her late father and an inexpensive metal lotus bowl that I had loved, deformed but still somehow itself. Like the ruins of our house, the site at Tel Halif mostly yielded small finds: the pottery that families used to store, prepare and consume food and drink; small clay figurines that may have been children's toys. I imagine the people who lived there leaving without time to gather everything, and without an efficient way to transport their heavy pottery. Some of the items we left behind are now unrecognizable; others have vanished completely. Hundreds of toy cars, handed down from our older son to his younger brother, gone without trace. Likewise, the art and the family photos that adorned our walls. As archaeologists used to reconstructing the past from the fragments left behind, the erratically preserved remnants of our house are a sobering reminder of how many of a site's most meaningful objects simply disappear. Some of the surviving items may be restored, at least in some sense. A shattered lilac plate from my sister-in-law can be glued back together. The earrings I gave Carly before our wedding may yet be wearable. But there is no illusion that these items represent the triumph of our own permanence. In the ancient world, buildings were sometimes rebuilt on the same foundations, but not even our home's foundations are left. The Army Corps of Engineers has already scraped our lot. Future archaeologists may not find much. Carly's excavations are her effort to salvage a few fragments of our Before, and connect them to our yet-to-be-determined After. They are symbols of the relationships and the beauty that gave our lives meaning before the fire, and continue to do so even now. We have been reminded repeatedly in the weeks since the fires of the significance of our community to both parts of this story, the Before and the After. Our neighbors and co-workers have risen up around us, picking us up out of the literal and figurative ashes. Government employees have worked tirelessly at the Disaster Recovery Center to guide us toward a new beginning. We continue to lean heavily on both friends and strangers, as we struggle to maintain the hope necessary to rebuild our lives in this unexpected After. To return to the burn zones of Los Angeles County, to rebuild above the burn layer, will require hope and faith. This hopefulness is part of our humanity. Nick Cage wrote: 'Hopefulness is not a neutral position.... It is adversarial. It is the warrior emotion that can lay waste to cynicism.' The world that existed before the fire lives in our memory more than in any material remains, but we always build on the foundation of the past. Like a human body, Altadena will heal. But the burn layer will always be there, just beneath our skin. Christopher B. Hays is a professor of Old Testament and ancient Near Eastern studies at Fuller Theological Seminary in Pasadena. In 2024, he also taught at the W.F. Albright Institute of Archaeological Research in Jerusalem. Carly L. Crouch, professor of Hebrew Bible and ancient Judaism at Radboud University in the Netherlands, contributed to this article. If it's in the news right now, the L.A. Times' Opinion section covers it. Sign up for our weekly opinion newsletter. This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.
Los Angeles Times
20-04-2025
- General
- Los Angeles Times
Excavating the burn layer in Altadena
Every archaeologist remembers the first time they came to a layer of blackened dirt while excavating. For me it was at Tel Halif, in southern Israel. I was crouching in a hole; the dig's director spotted the dark soil from up above. That black dirt was a burn layer, created when fire tore through a settlement. It was the material residue of great trauma — whole lives consumed and carbonized. A burn layer puts a mark on a timeline. There is a before, and there is an after, and there is no mistaking the one for the other. Our home in Altadena has had its own burn layer since Jan. 7. Our family is one of the thousands who lost their homes in the Los Angeles-area wildfires. I have stood in the ashes of that home, watching my wife, Carly, sifting through the fragments to see what survived a fire so hot it melted wrought iron and thick antique glass. Unlike most of those who are searching through the debris of January's fires, this isn't the first time we've excavated the rubble of destroyed lives. Both Carly and I are historians who practice archaeology. Humans tend to build and rebuild in the same places. In archaeology, the hills made up of the ruins of successive eras — often many yards deep and spanning centuries or even millennia — are called 'tells.' Sometimes distinguishing a tell's layers is a subtle art, but a burn layer stands out from everything around it. In that burn layer at Tel Halif, we found Assyrian arrowheads and ballista stones: evidence of the assault that destroyed the village in 701 BCE, part of the military campaign that the emperor Sennacherib immortalized in stone relief wall panels now displayed in the British Museum. I stood on the hill and looked out toward the edge of the Negev desert, imagining the villagers watching an army come into view. Did they run? What did they think would happen after? Like those long-gone inhabitants of Tel Halif, we saw the destruction coming — fire on the hillsides of Eaton Canyon was visible from our bedroom window. It wasn't unfamiliar: I had watched the hillside above me burn in La Crescenta during the Station fire of 2009, and in 2020 the Bobcat fire brought noxious smoke and ash to Altadena. On Jan. 7, the power had been out most of the day, and the poor cell reception without it meant we hadn't seen the news out of Pacific Palisades. Santa Ana winds are a familiar part of Los Angeles life, and the flames that night didn't seem any more dangerous than the ones we'd encountered before. We packed overnight bags, drove down the hill with our kids and expected to come home in the morning. We did come back the next morning, weaving through downed trees and power lines, avoiding emergency vehicles. (It was some time before the National Guard came to close off the area.) But what we saw at our address made no sense. This was not like a house fire in movies or on TV. There was no blackened shell dripping water after the valiant efforts of firefighters to save it. Instead, there was nothing. The house was simply gone, save the precarious, towering chimney and the massive concrete pillars that had supported the front porch. The sheer gone-ness of it was disorienting. When we returned to the site later, random surviving objects oriented us: the small cast-iron bedside table, fallen from the second floor to a spot near the fireplace directly beneath it. Our toddler's diaper pail in the hollow of a crawl space mixed with the remnants of the dining room. Our archaeological training taught us to look for these small clues, and to reconstruct from them the outlines of the house's upper stories. At Tel Azekah, another Israeli site, Carly once excavated the skeleton of a young woman who had been crushed beneath pottery that had fallen from the upper floors. We know we are among the lucky ones; at least 18 people from Altadena died in the Eaton fire. The house we lost was built in 1913 for a spinster heiress named Helen T. Longstreth. Its architectural plans, in ink on linen, wound up in the Huntington Library. The drawings of the exterior's timbering and the interior's multilayered moldings and built-in cabinetry attest to both the muscularity and the intricacy of Craftsman architecture at the end of the style's peak in the Los Angeles area. The beams that supported the large front porch were drawn at an impressive 6x12 inches, milled in a period when 6x12 meant 6x12. To the Eaton fire, it was all just fuel. And it was all gone. Or mostly gone. Near the front of the house had been Carly's office, with a library of 3,500 volumes. Like everything else in the house, it was a total loss, but it hadn't yet vanished. Because it was in a part of the house with a concrete subfloor and no second story, some of the books on bottom shelves still sat in neat, ashen rows, the stitching on the spines still visible. I was able to pick one up, almost as if it were still a book. But in the hand, it immediately began to disintegrate and blow away in the light breeze. I was reminded of the charred scrolls from Herculaneum, on which the Getty Villa was modeled, and the ashy human figures from Pompeii, frozen in the poses in which they died as waves of volcanic ash and lava overtook them. Here was the image of a book and bookshelf, but with no surviving words, no life in it. For me, the fire has driven home what my life's work as a historian of antiquity has taught me, what Shelley crystallized in his poem 'Ozymandias': We humans build monuments, only to have them disappear into the sands of time. But maybe the Bible says it most succinctly: 'You are dust, and to dust you shall return.' (Genesis 3:19) In an odd way, I count myself lucky to be disabused so forcefully of any fantasies of material permanence while I'm still in the middle of my life. How many elderly people look around their homes and wonder what to do with all this stuff? I walked away from the ash. Carly, however, returned several times, donned PPE, and sifted. From the ashes she pulled a strange assortment of survivors: fragments of ceramic plates, misshapen metal and coffee mugs that no public health authority would recommend using. (Archaeologists do frequently lick the ceramics from an excavation, the better to show the decoration, but those don't have toxic metals in the dusting of soil.) She also excavated a few gems, including a star sapphire ring that belonged to her late father and an inexpensive metal lotus bowl that I had loved, deformed but still somehow itself. Like the ruins of our house, the site at Tel Halif mostly yielded small finds: the pottery that families used to store, prepare and consume food and drink; small clay figurines that may have been children's toys. I imagine the people who lived there leaving without time to gather everything, and without an efficient way to transport their heavy pottery. Some of the items we left behind are now unrecognizable; others have vanished completely. Hundreds of toy cars, handed down from our older son to his younger brother, gone without trace. Likewise, the art and the family photos that adorned our walls. As archaeologists used to reconstructing the past from the fragments left behind, the erratically preserved remnants of our house are a sobering reminder of how many of a site's most meaningful objects simply disappear. Some of the surviving items may be restored, at least in some sense. A shattered lilac plate from my sister-in-law can be glued back together. The earrings I gave Carly before our wedding may yet be wearable. But there is no illusion that these items represent the triumph of our own permanence. In the ancient world, buildings were sometimes rebuilt on the same foundations, but not even our home's foundations are left. The Army Corps of Engineers has already scraped our lot. Future archaeologists may not find much. Carly's excavations are her effort to salvage a few fragments of our Before, and connect them to our yet-to-be-determined After. They are symbols of the relationships and the beauty that gave our lives meaning before the fire, and continue to do so even now. We have been reminded repeatedly in the weeks since the fires of the significance of our community to both parts of this story, the Before and the After. Our neighbors and co-workers have risen up around us, picking us up out of the literal and figurative ashes. Government employees have worked tirelessly at the Disaster Recovery Center to guide us toward a new beginning. We continue to lean heavily on both friends and strangers, as we struggle to maintain the hope necessary to rebuild our lives in this unexpected After. To return to the burn zones of Los Angeles County, to rebuild above the burn layer, will require hope and faith. This hopefulness is part of our humanity. Nick Cage wrote: 'Hopefulness is not a neutral position.... It is adversarial. It is the warrior emotion that can lay waste to cynicism.' The world that existed before the fire lives in our memory more than in any material remains, but we always build on the foundation of the past. Like a human body, Altadena will heal. But the burn layer will always be there, just beneath our skin. Christopher B. Hays is a professor of Old Testament and ancient Near Eastern studies at Fuller Theological Seminary in Pasadena. In 2024, he also taught at the W.F. Albright Institute of Archaeological Research in Jerusalem. Carly L. Crouch, professor of Hebrew Bible and ancient Judaism at Radboud University in the Netherlands, contributed to this article.
